


The Far Edge of Time

by SableR



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Assassination, Blood Sharing, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Comfort/Angst, F/M, Far Future, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Happy Ending, Historical References, Immortality, Marriage, Mentioned Golden Deer Students (Fire Emblem), Minor Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Post-Golden Deer Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Speculation, Steampunk, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-12-21 07:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21071402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SableR/pseuds/SableR
Summary: Byleth clears her throat, her voice soft but insistent. "Rhea? How long will I live?"Rhea's old, untouchable smile flickers across her face. "You are...as I am."***When Byleth faces all the ages of the world, Claude is right there with her. It's another adventure, another chance to take, another promise to keep. He believes it as fervently as he always did; there is nothing they can't face together. Byleth/Claude throughout the ages, with guest appearances from a few other long-lived friends.





	1. The Beginning

**Imperial Year 1185**  
  
Rhea clings to life until she can hear the truth for herself. Seteth, Flayn, and Byleth, safe. Nemesis, slain. She doesn't seem to care about much beyond that. Byleth sits at the fading archbishop's bedside, watching the candle burn down in her windowsill. She clasps Rhea's limp hands in her own. Together, they await the end.  
  
"Dear child," whispers Rhea. "Thank you, for all that you've done. It is far too late for regrets...but I am sorry."  
  
Death is an old, familiar presence, something Byleth grew up with on the battlefield. It's now, or never; either she holds her tongue and lets Rhea slip peacefully into the void, or she presses for one more answer.  
  
Claude's rubbed off on her, even if he's leagues away in Almyra. Byleth clears her throat, her voice soft but insistent.  
  
"Rhea? How long will I live?"  
  
Rhea's old, untouchable smile flickers across her face. "You are...as I am."

She knows it's true, deep in her bones. If she's honest with herself, she knew it from the moment Rhea confessed what she was, what had happened all those years ago. Byleth sits perfectly still, holding her breath until Rhea speaks again.

"You will live as I did. For as long as your heart can bear it."  
  
Rhea's eyes close, her head slumps, but the smile lingers on her face long after she falls still. Byleth gently loosens her fingers from Rhea's and blows out the candle before she leaves. Seteth and Flayn are waiting outside the archbishop's room; they always looked lonely, but never more so than during their silent vigil for Rhea. Flayn sniffles when she sees Byleth's face; Seteth, pale and strained, looks past the point of tears.  
  
"It's over now," says Byleth.  
  
Flayn bows her head, the tears streaking down her cheeks. Byleth holds her close, lets Flayn sob in her arms, but her thoughts aren't of Rhea. Instead, she thinks of Claude, the dream they share, and the future they wish to build. She imagines silver creeping into his dark hair, the hands that once held Failnaught growing feeble with the years, the cold comfort of a stone monument replacing his arms around her, his smile flattened and immortalized in a thousand still paintings and reliefs.  
  
She shudders, and Flayn looks up at her, huge green eyes swollen. "I hoped we could all be together, all four of us. And now..." She wipes her eyes dry. "You will never leave us, right?"  
  
Byleth says nothing. She doesn't have an answer. She strokes Flayn's hair, wondering how much her own heart can bear.  
  
Some of her distress must show, because Seteth puts a hand on her shoulder, trying to smile in spite of his own obvious grief. "If you ever need anything, Flayn and I are here for you. I meant what I said before. We _are_ family." Seteth's voice breaks, and he covers his face in his hands.  
  
Family they may be, in some strange sense. But right now, it isn't Seteth she needs. He isn't the one who could help her. She's not even sure if anyone _can_ help her, but she's damn well going to try.  
  
Later that night, before she departs Garreg Mach for Derdriu, she scribbles three letters. Two, she sends off with the monastery's fastest pegasus couriers. One, she leaves on Professor Hanneman's desk. She pauses on her way out the door and extends her hand into Hanneman's peculiar device, watching the Crest of Flames manifest from shadow and light.  
  
She didn't want this. She never asked for it. But time and time again, she's made the best of it. Smiling a little, she lets herself indulge in a tiny glimmer of hope as she makes her way to the monastery's graveyard.  
  
Her pegasus waits next to Jeralt's grave, impatiently tossing her magnificent head. Byleth absently soothes her steed, though her eyes linger on Jeralt's headstone.  
  
For her sake, she hopes that her father told Alois the truth all those years ago. She hopes that Rhea had nothing else to hide.

* * *

**Imperial Year 1186**  
  
Byleth waits to tell Claude in person...and then she waits a little longer, after the heady rush of battlefield reunion passes them by. The chilly spring breeze rushes over the sea, stirring the curtains of their bed. She listens to Claude's steady heartbeat with the sweat still cooling on their skin. Is it cowardly if she never wants this to end? Is it selfish to ask for someone else to share all her long years? She buries her face in his chest, holding on to him for just a few more seconds.  
  
He knows something's troubling her. He always knows. He rolls over and props himself up on one elbow, smiling that easy smile as he idly traces patterns on her shoulder. "What's going on in that head of yours?" he asks. "What horrible thing demands our attention now?"  
  
Byleth laughs, in spite of herself. "It isn't horrible. Or maybe it is."  
  
"Oh? That sounds interesting."  
  
"I talked to Rhea before she died."  
  
Claude's smile vanishes, and she wonders if he suspected all along. He must have, with a mind like his.  
  
"I'm like her, Claude. I'll live...as long as she did, maybe more."  
  
_For as long as my heart can bear it._  
  
"Hm." Claude runs a hand through his messy hair, his eyes suddenly as wide as saucers. "I can't say I'm surprised, after everything Rhea told us. But knowing it for sure is..." He trails off, a shadow crossing his face as all the implications hit him at once.  
  
"That's not all." She takes a deep breath, the tiny spark of hope flickering in her heart once more. "Alois once told me something about my father, and I've been in contact with some of our old friends."  
  
He watches, clearly troubled but curious, as she reaches over to the bedside table and picks up a messy stack of letters. Months of correspondence and speculation, always sent by the fastest couriers she can find...always with sealed vials of her own blood. The letters rustle in her trembling hands.  
  
Claude immediately recognizes Linhardt's signature, and Hanneman's untidy scrawl. She can almost see the gears turning in his head, frantically putting the pieces together as he reads with blistering speed.  
  
"Byleth," he whispers. "What is this?"  
  
She smiles a little, with both fear and flickering hope in her eyes. "A different life," she says. "But only if you want it."  
  
He drops the letters, seizes her hands, and pulls her into a searing kiss, his lips just as desperate as they were a few hours ago. He kisses her cheeks, her hands, kisses the unshed tears from her eyes. She gasps when his lips find her throat, lingering over her soft, steady pulse.  
  
"Do you even have to ask? I love you," he whispers, low and fierce. "I love you, and I would never let you face all the ages of this world alone."  
  
It's the second time she's ever cried, a tangle of love and fear and sheer relief giving way inside her. She used to spend so much time alone, and never minded. But now, being without Claude, for lifetime after lifetime...the thought is more than she can bear. Claude cradles her in his arms, hands stroking her hair as she listens to his heartbeat...ticking away precious time.  
  
"You and I beat Nemesis," he says. "We brought Fódlan and Almyra to the dawn of a new world. Cheating death will be easy after this."  
  
She laughs, startled, and Claude laughs with her, gently brushing the tears from her face. Together, they watch the sun rise over Derdriu, and dare to dream of more.

* * *

**Imperial Year 1189**  
  
They spend a lot of time visiting Lysithea and Linhardt, and not just out of necessity. Lysithea's new cottage is beautiful, and the garden overflows with the sweet scent of honeysuckle and lavender. Byleth loves the hours she spends here, all-too-brief reprieves from the pressures of ruling two nations.  
  
This afternoon, Linhardt's napping in the huge hammock under the willow tree. Inside the house, Lysithea seals the fresh puncture on Byleth's arm with a touch of magic, and sets aside yet another carefully labelled vial of blood.  
  
"Sorry about all the blood," says Lysithea. "If it makes you feel any better, Linhardt hates having it around the house."  
  
"You could relocate to Garreg Mach," says Byleth. "Leave all the vials with Professor Hanneman."  
  
"Hanneman's a great collaborator, but he keeps waking Linhardt up from his naps. _I_ know better than that." She finishes with Byleth, then turns to Claude, drawing his blood with a thoughtful look on her face.  
  
"What?" asks Claude.  
  
Lysithea gazes out the window at the still sleeping Linhardt. His hair's fallen over his face, his book resting over his chest. "I know it's not the same. But I'd made my peace with only having a few years left to live, and I was almost mad at Linhardt for giving me hope."  
  
"Hope's a strange thing," she continues with a soft, fond smile. "It gives you the strength to do the impossible."  
  
Claude grins at her. "Is that a blush I see? Are you blushing?"  
  
"Ugh, you're still the worst! You're the King, and you can't keep your mouth shut even when I've got a needle in your arm?!"  
  
Claude laughs, utterly shameless. "Whoa, hey, no need for that. I think it's sweet, honestly. I'm happy for the two of you."  
  
"Hmph. Sweet." Lysithea eases the needle out of Claude's arm, smiling in spite of her words.  
  
Claude shuffles his feet in the soft plush rug, watching as she carefully adds his blood to a growing collection. So many vials stacked in neat rows... one every two months over the last few years. "So, I hate to be a bother, but—"  
  
"But you're going to bother me anyway, so we might as well get this over with." Lysithea folds her arms, fixing Claude with a severe look. "I know you're impatient, but you don't want to end up like me. You already have a Minor Crest of Riegan, and two Crests would probably destroy you too, no matter how stubborn you are. These things take _time._"  
  
Claude blinks. "Huh? No, I just wanted to know if you had any of those almond cakes. I'm starving."  
  
Lysithea laughs, shooing the two of them back out into the garden. "I'll be out with cakes and tea in a moment. Wake Linhardt up, will you? He already napped through breakfast."  
  
As soon as they're out of earshot, Byleth raises an eyebrow at Claude. "You weren't actually interested in pastries."  
  
"Well, _now_ I am." Their rings touch when he squeezes her hand. "I hate being a pain to Lysithea and Linhardt, but I can't stop thinking about every day that passes. I'm so much more aware of it than I was before."  
  
"We still have time." Byleth kisses his fingers, her lips lingering on the wedding ring. "And if this works, we'll have a lot more of it."  
  
"When it works."  
  
He says it like it's a fact of the universe, as immutable as the sun and stars. "Claude..." she begins, but he presses a finger to her lips and beams, the sun caught in his deep green eyes.  
  
"I believe in us, Byleth. I always have."

* * *

**Imperial Year 1190**  
  
It takes another year for Hanneman to finish researching potential side-effects and pronounce himself satisfied. Now, with the appointed hour upon them, Claude practically wears a hole in the carpet of Hanneman's office. Linhardt lounges in the armchair, his eyes bright with interest. Across the hall, they can hear the scraping of furniture and soft whirring of instruments as Lysithea sets up the infirmary.  
  
Hanneman's hair is completely silver now, though his eyes are as sharp as ever. He settles himself behind his desk and shuffles a few papers, an old habit from their Academy days.

"Your Majesties, as your former professor and colleague, I cannot help but worry for your well-being. Please, indulge an old man's concerns before we proceed."  
  
Claude sighs. "All right, Professor Hanneman. But only because you asked nicely."  
  
"As discussed, we will remove your Crest of Riegan before any blood transfusion. It will make wielding your Relic more difficult, but I'm sure you're up to the challenge."  
  
"With Fódlan and Almyra mostly at peace, I haven't needed the Relic in over a year. I'm fine with it going back into a vault if I can't use it." He and Byleth exchange a quick look of relief. Neither of them are squeamish, but the truth behind the Relics is hard to endure.  
  
"Removing your natural Crest is easy enough. However, we simply don't know what might happen with a Crest as powerful as the Crest of Flames. Linhardt estimates a twenty percent chance of failure, and a ten percent chance of serious complication or death." Hanneman takes a deep breath. "For my part, I am slightly less optimistic than that."  
  
"Well, you know me," says Claude. "I'm an eternal optimist."  
  
The whole time, he clutches Byleth's hand, their rings digging into their fingers.  
  
That evening, before the procedure, she finds him in his old room from their school days. Brick dust still covers the floor, and the whole dormitory now smells of paint and polish. The Officer's Academy is reopening in just a few short months. There's nothing left of their time here, and the room is far too small to contain the King, the Queen, and all their world-spanning dreams.  
  
Claude turns and smiles when he hears her enter. "Hey, Teach."  
  
"Are you going to keep calling me that in a hundred years?"  
  
They've only talked about the far distant future in broad strokes; with so much happening here and now, it's hard to imagine what they'll do with so much time. But now that it's almost here, and the reality is close enough to touch, Byleth can't help but think about it.  
  
"As long as you'll let me," he says with a wink.  
  
She bumps her shoulder against his. "I let you get away with so much."  
  
"I know, and I love you for it." He leans against the wall, running his fingers over the brand-new paneling. "Hey, remember when I asked you if I could borrow the Sword of the Creator?"  
  
"Claude..."  
  
"Oh, come on! Maybe I'll be able to use it too. Wouldn't that be something?"  
  
She shuts him up with a kiss. For all his impatience, all of the fierce courage, all his hopes that burn like the sun... he's afraid. She can feel it in the way he clings to her, in his soft shiver when she finally pulls away.  
  
"I'll be with you the whole time," she says.  
  
Claude shakes his head. "You'll be with me forever. That's a long time, but I guess it means we'll just have to dream bigger."

* * *

The hours after the transfusion are the longest of Byleth's life. Lysithea firmly kicks her out of the infirmary; her pacing is distracting, and she knows it, but she can't just sit there and watch Claude lying motionless, with needles in his arms and his hair drenched with sweat. She prowls up and down the halls of the monastery, feeling like some sort of caged animal, painfully aware of the blood pounding in her veins.

Linhardt fetches her after midnight. "I think he's through the worst," he says bluntly. "But he's not waking up, and I don't want to try anything drastic."

_"What?"_

She rushes back upstairs, barely hearing Linhardt's protests behind her. She bursts into the infirmary and falls to her knees at Claude's side, seizing his hands in both of hers.

Claude stirs fitfully, his skin hot and cold by turns. He mumbles something she can't hear, and his fingers close around hers.

Lysithea, Hanneman, and Linhardt all gather nervously around his bedside. "Has he said anything you can understand?" she asks.

All three of them shake their heads.

Two days follow in a nauseating blur. Two days of cold sweat and ancient nightmares from which Claude can't seem to wake. Two excruciating, restless nights with all four of them taking turns at his bedside. In quieter moments, Hanneman repeatedly assures her that this was a possibility, that Claude will pull through. Byleth can only nod along, feeling her heart seize every time Claude talks in his sleep.  
  
She can guess what the dreams are. She knows those dreams herself, all too well.  
  
At dawn on the third day, Byleth's drowsing when she hears him stir. "Shh," she whispers, gently brushing his matted hair from his forehead. "I'm here. It's just a dream."  
  
Claude's eyes flutter open, fearful and hazy at first. "...Byleth?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
She climbs into bed with him, resting his head on her lap. He groans, coughs, his shoulders heaving. She reaches for the bin next to his bed, just in time for him to retch into it. He's shivering again by the time he's done, and she carefully reaches for the glass of water at his bedside. He takes a few shaky sips.

"Ugh...I feel like death warmed over."

"Easy," she whispers. She wants to throw her arms around him, but she settles for helping him sit up. "You've been out for two days."  
  
Claude's laugh comes out in a low rasp. "But it worked."  
  
She doesn't answer right away. "You don't know that for sure."

"Byleth, I had dreams."

He pushes the water glass aside, green eyes suddenly lost in the past. "You know what I'm talking about," he continues. "You've seen it yourself. Would I be having these dreams if it hadn't worked?"  
  
Byleth sighs, conceding defeat. She knows she'll never get him to rest without checking first. Gingerly, she helps him out of bed and across the hall to Hanneman's office. He leans on her with every step, still wobbly on his feet. They ease the door open, only to find Linhardt waiting in Hanneman's armchair. He jolts from his nap when he hears the door, all traces of drowsiness gone.  
  
"Oh! You're finally awake." Linhardt crosses the room, inspecting Claude closely. "Hmm. Good skin color, pupils seem normal, no bleeding or discoloration in the eyes...all a good start."  
  
"You're still here?" asks Claude.  
  
Linhardt rolls his eyes. "Of _course_ I'm still here. This whole procedure is _my_ invention...and Professor Hanneman helped a bit. Here, sit down and put your arm in this."  
  
Together, they help Claude into the armchair and hold his arm over the Crest analyzer, holding their breaths.  
  
Like a beacon, the Crest of Flames rises from Claude's palm. He blinks, flexes his fingers, and grins at Byleth.  
  
"See? I told you it worked."

* * *

**Unification Year 12 **

Zanado is silent and abandoned, except the two pairs of fresh footprints leading further into the valley. Claude and Byleth leave their steeds at the mouth of the canyon and follow the prints, boots crunching in the ancient gravel.

"Do you think the bandits knew what this place was, all those years ago?" asks Claude. "I mean, just look at it. You and I have been all over the continent, from the southern Empire to eastern Almyra. Zanado doesn't look like anywhere else."

He's right. Even now, the crumbling stone walls loom far above their heads, taller than anything built in the eras since. The teetering pillars reach for the sky, as if built by giants to grasp the stars. Claude keeps turning his head to examine the fragments, fascinated by the strange patterns and symbols still visible amidst the destruction.

She loves him so much—the spark in his eyes, his easy stride, the way the sunset plays off his thick hair. The thought strikes her hard, as it always does, and she doesn't even realize that she's staring with a big lovestruck grin...until she nearly trips over a step.

Claude catches her with a knowing wink. "You daydreaming on me, Teach?"

She punches him in the shoulder and grins back, unashamed. Maybe one day, her breath won't catch at the sight of his smile, and she'll be able to wrestle her thoughts in line every time his eyes distract her. But she hopes that day will never come. 

They finally reach the far edge of the ruins, up against the canyon walls. Here, the devastation is nearly complete. Nothing remains above the first floor of any building. She spots a telltale glimpse of green hair amidst the red stone—Flayn and Seteth, perched on the remains of an old well.

"Hey!" calls Byleth, her voice echoing off the canyon walls. "Sorry we're late!"

Flayn jumps to her feet, beaming, and runs to greet her. But she skids to a stop when she sees the person standing next to Byleth. "Byleth! And...Claude?"

"You usually come alone," says Seteth. He puts a protective hand on Flayn's shoulder. "What is His Majesty doing here?"

Claude laughs, just to get a rise out of Seteth. "Well, I may have joined your little clan. Kind of. Not really. It's complicated."

Seteth's eyes narrow dangerously, but before he can rise to Claude's bait, Byleth steps in. "Did Rhea ever tell you about the blood transfusion that she gave my father?"

Seteth sighs. "No. Though in hindsight, I should not be surprised—" He stops mid-thought, his jaw dropping as he looks from Byleth to Claude. "Did you...? No. Surely even you would not take such an outlandish risk."

"Come on, Seteth, you know us better than that," says Claude, his grin wider than ever. "I don't have the green hair, but that's all right. I don't think it'd be a good look on me."

Seteth gapes at them in stunned silence, but Flayn throws her arms around Claude, practically squeezing the air out of him.

"Agh! Flayn, my ribs—"

"Oh, I am so glad! This means we will not have to keep secrets from one another!" She looks over her shoulder at a still-dumbfounded Seteth. "Right, Father?"

"Flayn, I am not sure if—"

"Save yourself the trouble, Seteth," says Claude, gently disentangling himself from Flayn's arms. "Byleth and I figured out who you both were years ago. It wasn't hard after Rhea told us the truth about herself."

Seteth finally smiles, shaking his head. "I...see. I suppose there is no point in maintaining the charade with the two of you. It was exhausting at times."

"I could tell," says Claude. "You weren't very good at it. I think Macuil and Indech had a better idea, disappearing in distant places where few would look for them."

"You will have to maintain some kind of charade yourselves," says Seteth. "Or disappear. Your agelessness will be noticed, and there will always be those who hate and envy you for who you are."

Claude shrugs, unconcerned. "Story of my life, so I'm not too worried. Do you know how many assassination attempts we've dodged by now?"

"And besides," adds Byleth, "it'll be a relief to give up our crowns someday. Once the new world is strong enough to survive without us, we'll hand Fódlan and Almyra to someone else."

Seteth looks out over the ruins in the canyon, remembering something long-gone and faded into the distant past. For a moment, every one of his centuries rests heavily on his shoulders. "Rhea...she could never entrust Fódlan to another. Even when she wasn't archbishop herself, in a variety of guises...she could never let go. Until the day her old grudges and our old enemy killed her."

Claude shuffles his feet in the red earth, and says nothing. He never liked Rhea, never trusted her, and never quite forgave her for all she did. But Byleth puts a hand on Seteth's shoulder and smiles.

"How about you come with us?" she asks. "We could all travel together." It's a thought she's been entertaining for a while now. It'd be good for Seteth and Flayn to see the world and the peace they fought for, instead of whiling away the centuries in seclusion.

Seteth glances at Claude, who tries to put on an innocent smile. It fails horribly; no smile looks innocent on his face.

"Oh, I would dearly love to travel with you!" Flayn seals the deal. If she's coming with them, then so is Seteth. "Where were you thinking of going?"

"I'd like to spend a few years in Sreng, now that Sylvain's making successful peace overtures," says Claude. "Maybe we'll swing by the Wind Caller's sanctuary, say hello to your uncle Macuil."

Seteth winces. "Macuil was never fond of humanity. I doubt he would respond any more cordially now than he did years ago."

"Always such a critic. I see some things never change." Claude's eyes twinkle with mischief. "Hey, Byleth. Let's take them to Almyra's midwinter festival. They can meet my side of the family, we can drink date wine for three days..."

Seteth visibly bristles. "No, no, I refuse—" He cuts himself off with an aggravated sigh when the others all laugh. Slowly, grudgingly, he smiles at Claude.

"I suppose I was setting myself up for that."

"You said we were family," Byleth points out. "That means we get to make fun of you, Seteth."

For the first time in centuries, the dead ruins of Zanado ring with the sound of laughter and merriment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Constructive comments are always deeply appreciated :)
> 
> I've had this idea in my head since finishing the Golden Deer route. IMO Claude is the sort of person who would jump at the chance for immortality, seeing it as a gift. After all, more time means more scheming :) By necessity, this story will get into very, very speculative territory in later chapters, but I'll try to stick to something canon-plausible.


	2. The Journey

**Unification Year 17**  
  
The news of Professor Hanneman's death arrives at the worst possible time. Byleth and Claude are in southern Almyra, dealing with a serious pirate incursion. Claude reads the letter in the privacy of their command tent, his face grim and set.  
  
"We can't make it back in time for the funeral." He's dry-eyed, his voice steady, but the letter shakes in his hands. "We've got them on the run."  
  
Byleth nods, though it gives her no joy. "I know. If we leave now, the pirates will just come back next summer."  
  
"Hanneman fought the war with us. He'd understand."  
  
She swallows around the sudden lump in her throat. "Claude, please don't say that. It hurts enough already."  
  
"Sorry. I'm sorry." Claude sets the letter aside and holds her hands, calloused thumbs stroking her palm.  
  
"I just...I wish we could've said goodbye," she says, staring at the wavering lines of ink. It's Manuela's writing, her penmanship even shakier than usual. Large splotch marks stain the page. "He did so much for everyone."  
  
"For us." Claude feels for her pulse, beating in time with his own. "For me. Is it selfish to think of him that way?"

"Maybe a little, but he was our friend. I think we can be selfish, don't you?"  
  
Neither of them want to say it, but they know it's the first of many such letters. The first in a long, long line of funerals and farewells, stretching out into the horizon across the decades. They knew it was coming. It's different, now that it's finally here. Byleth shakes her head, shrugging off the morbid musings of which letter comes next.   
  
"Claude?" She kisses his palms, one at a time. The tears will come later, when she has time and space for them, but not now. "Do you have any regrets?"  
  
She'd asked once before, when they decided not to have children. The possibility of watching their own children age and die was too much for either of them. But Claude's answer is the same as it was then, and comes just as quickly.  
  
"No. Never."

He picks up a quill and starts drafting a reply, but he doesn't even make it past "Dear Manuela" before he stops, intimidated by the vast expanse of the blank page. "Byleth, what do I even say?"

"I don't know." She was never good at comforting people with just words.

Claude twirls his quill between his fingers; it snaps in two. He freezes, watching as the ink pools, staining his hands black. Byleth gently pulls the broken pieces out of his grasp.

"What did people say to you when Jeralt died?' he asks. "Did any of it help?"

Byleth closes her eyes. The memories have faded somewhat, and the rougher edges of pain have softened over the years. But the grief still lingers, and she wonders it will ever truly disappear.

"I don't remember what anybody said. At first, I was too numb. But when that faded, it was like someone had punched a hole through my chest. Everything reminded me of him. I couldn't train, because Jeralt was the one who taught me how to swing a sword. I couldn't make tea. He used to make it for me when I was little. I was just so...helpless."

When she opens her eyes, Claude's watching her with an unfathomable expression. He strokes her cheek, leaving soft smudges of ink behind.

"I'm sorry for asking. I know it still hurts."

"It's all right." She fetches a fresh quill and a handkerchief, handing them to him. "The specific words don't matter, Claude. For me, it was enough to know that people cared."

Claude smiles, even if it doesn't reach his eyes, even if it is just armor to get them through the next few days. "I can't say I feel better."

"You will, someday."

He sighs heavily. "I guess we have a lot of time for that." He wipes his hands clean, dips the quill in his inkwell, and begins to write. 

* * *

**Unification Year 35**  
  
It's her coronation day, and Darya is terrified. Her room overlooks the causeway that leads through Fódlan's Throat and up to the Dawn Palace. She fidgets with the hem of her nightgown, watching through her curtains as streams of people begin to arrive for her big day. The huge plaza in front of the Palace bursts with citizens and travelers from every corner of the world, eager to see their new Queen.

The Kingdom of Dawn now stretches from sea to sea, from the far western coast of Fódlan to the vast eastern steppe of Almyra. Ships fly banners with the Almyran archer against a backdrop of the Crest of Flames, sailing regularly to Brigid and even distant Dagda. An expeditionary venture to Albinea returned with the iridescent gems that adorn her new crown. In a few short, whirlwind hours...it will all be her responsibility. It's surreal, overwhelming...and she's glad she turned down a heavier breakfast.  
  
"Scared, Darya?" says a voice from her doorway.  
  
"You wish, cousin."  
  
Claude, legendary king, hero of two worlds, and royal pain in the ass stands beside her at the window. He looks smaller without his armor and and robes, strange without a bow in his hands. He looks out over the plaza and smiles faintly.  
  
"Byleth and I were never able to relax here. We knew it was a good location for the Dawn Palace, and it's almost unrecognizable now. But we always saw the bones of the old fortress, everywhere we went."  
  
"Fódlan's Locket." Darya tries to imagine ramparts and ballistae instead of staterooms, soldiers mustering in the plaza outside. Claude's stories of the old world still amaze her, though she'll never admit that to him. A time when gods and monsters walked the land and lurked beneath the earth, when faraway people and places stayed far away instead of drawing close. Her whole generation grew up knowing nothing but the peace and prosperity for which Claude fought, and she suspects that's by design.   
  
Claude winks at her. "Hey, look at that. You _were_ listening during your history lessons."  
  
"Only because you never shut up about it."  
  
"Come on, forgive your old cousin his blather," he says with a chuckle. "I like to relive my glory days, you know?"  
  
She could point out that he never looks old, that the silver dye he feathers through his hair and beard isn't fooling anybody. And on any other day, she would have. But not today. Today, she needs him...or at least someone like him, who understands the existential terror coiling in the pit of her stomach.  
  
"You promised to tell me the truth someday, about you and Byleth." It's an old promise, from her childhood. "Well?"  
  
"You wouldn't believe me even if I did tell you."  
  
"No?" Darya folds her arms. "Try me, Claude."  
  
"All right. Byleth is the progenitor god of Fódlan—kind of—so she's basically immortal. A while ago, she gave me a transfusion of her blood. I'm immortal too."  
  
Darya gapes at him. He's lying. He has to be. But he says it with such a straight face that she feels the first flickers of doubt. "Right. Sure. Keep your secrets, then."  
  
Claude's eyes soften, and he rests a hand on her shoulder. "You've got this, kiddo."  
  
"Easy for you to say, running off to your retirement."  
  
"Darya, Byleth and I didn't ask you to be our heir just so we could go traveling."  
  
She rolls her eyes, feeling the terror in her stomach ease just a little. "Be honest. It was a _little _bit so you could go traveling."  
  
"A little," Claude admits. He smiles, a soft and encouraging smile that actually reaches his eyes. "We asked because you're the best person for the job. I've never lied to you about how terrible ruling can be. Ignorance is easy, conflict is inevitable...peace is the hardest and most thankless task there is. But you still said yes, and that means you're as ready to be Queen as you'll ever be."  
  
"That's all well and good, but I'm still scared."  
  
Even the admission scares her. Claude and Byleth, King and Queen of a glorious new golden age...they seemed so untouchable in her youth. Even now, after she's spent years learning at their side, she wonders if she'll ever measure up. If anybody could.  
  
"We were scared too." He looks down at his hands, scarred and calloused from decades of drawing a bowstring. "Scared of death, of failure, of being responsible for so many lives. Scared of losing each other forever. If you weren't scared, Darya, you'd either be crazy or a liar."  
  
He turns away, leaving her to her preparations, but Darya has one last question for him.  
  
"Claude? Will you visit some time?"  
  
He stops in her doorway, framed by the rising sun. For a moment, he looks just like he does in all the reliefs and sculptures, the dashing young hero flying off into the new dawn. Then the moment passes, the light shifts, and he's her wisecracking cousin all over again.  
  
"Maybe I'll bring a doll back, just for you." He dodges the pillow she chucks at his head, still laughing as he disappears from view.

* * *

**Unification Year 50**  
  
The uncharted island bursts up through the sea fog. Black, coarse sand sticks to their boots as Byleth and Claude march through the surf. Before them, its peak barely visible through the fog, stands a mountain of bare, jagged stone. Nothing lives here...no birds, no plants, not a shred of color to break the monotony of stone, sand, and fog.

A low, persistent hum under their feet sets their teeth on edge. At regular intervals, the ground shudders, as if the earth itself heaves with pain.   
  
"It's getting stronger," says Byleth. The Sword of the Creator blazes in her hands, furious at the close proximity of its ancient foes.  
  
"You're right. I think it's coming from the base of the mountain." Claude rolls his shoulders, sharp green eyes darting in every direction through the fog. "This place gives me the creeps."  
  
"Worse than Shambhala?" she asks.  
  
"Certainly worse," says a voice behind them.  
  
Byleth whirls, and Claude looses a warning arrow into the fog. But it's just Seteth and Flayn, getting off of their own wyvern, both armed and dressed for battle. Seteth murmurs something to the wyvern, who takes off with a shriek.  
  
Claude lets out a low, soft whistle. "We didn't think you were coming. I almost shot you."  
  
Flayn smiles, and Byleth finds herself smiling back despite where they are. "Father took some convincing. But in the end..."  
  
"In the end, it would shame me to let you fight our ancient enemy while we remained safe," says Seteth. The Spear of Assal gleams bright and cold in his hands. "Do you know if these ruins are inhabited?"  
  
"Not as far as we can tell," says Byleth. "But we've never gotten this close before. We think the sea fog is unnatural. The island's always shrouded, no matter the weather, and it's denser around the mountain."  
  
Seteth frowns. "Agarthan sorcery. It must be."  
  
"Let's not jump to conclusions," says Claude. "Everyone stick together, and if we do get separated, don't keep going. Regroup on the beach."  
  
Byleth takes the lead as they hike to the mountain's base, the angry glow of the Sword of the Creator leading the way. Seteth and Flayn follow on her heels, with Claude as rear guard.

"How did you find this place?" asks Seteth.

"Local legends. Any records of the Agarthans would be long gone, but we heard tales of an island that spat fire and spawned metal beasts. So Claude asked around the coastal villages, and we followed the trail of stories."

"We're hoping most of them aren't true," says Claude before he falls silent.

The island grows more treacherous as they climb toward its heart, deep pockets of grey sand interspersed with crumbling, glassy black stone. It's unlike anything Byleth's ever seen, as though someone with no knowledge of the world took several different lands, carved them up, and stitched them together like a patchwork quilt. Flayn spots a set of half-broken steps, and for lack of a better path, they start following those. The fog presses in all around them, so thick Byleth can barely see ten feet before her.

The steps end abruptly at a narrow archway. Foul, sulfurous air belches from the entrance, and Byleth hears the echo of metal grinding far below. She can't see anything down there; it could be ten feet deep or ten thousand, for all she knows.

"Here." Claude taps her on the shoulder, handing her a large, smooth everlamp gem. It comes alive in her hands, casting a ghostly silver glow before them.

Seteth stares. "Where did you get that?"

"We were in Morfis a few years ago," says Claude with a grin. "We might've gotten...caught up in someone else's heist. They gave us the gem to keep for our trouble."

"For your trouble," says Seteth, skepticism dripping from every word. "Do you know how priceless those are outside of Morfis?"

"Yeah, we're working on that." Claude laughs at the flabbergasted expression on Seteth's face. "I'll tell you about it later. For now, we've got a ruin to explore."

The air inside the mountain stings their lungs. By the light of the everlamp, they pick their way along a narrow catwalk that extends over a huge rectangular cavern. The cathedral of Garreg Mach could fit comfortably in this space. Iron chains hang from the ceiling and walls, each link as large as a person. Below them, monstrous constructs stand vigil, covered in layer upon layer of sickly green rust. The smallest stand twice the height of the constructs from Shambhala.

"How terrible," Flayn whispers. "The Demonic Beasts and horrors of Shambhala were not enough? Each of those monsters could destroy an entire town..."

Claude nods along, but he's only half-listening. "This is bigger than we thought. It'll take weeks to explore this place, maybe years to uncover all its secrets. At least nothing seems to be—"

_Something_ drops onto the catwalk, and the whole thing creaks ominously beneath their feet. Claude whirls, fires an arrow; a whistling shriek answers him. Four glowing red eyes emerge from the darkness behind them. 

"Oh, that's just rude!" Claude fires two more arrows, but they strike armor in a shower of sparks.

Byleth smiles, the familiar rush of battle pounding in her blood. "Get down!"

Claude instantly hits the ground, but Seteth and Flayn barely dodge in time as the Sword of the Creator lashes out like a snake. The sword strikes true, and whatever lurks in the dark sprays black blood all over the catwalk. Byleth shoves the everlamp into Flayn's hands, leaps onto the railing, and dashes forward. She lands in front of Claude, the sword bathing their assailant in an eerie orange glow.

The creature might've been a person once, but a person distorted and elongated, limbs twisted with black metal to form huge, spidery appendages. A matted, filthy carpet of hair blankets its lean, misshapen body. It shrieks in rage at the blazing sword, all four eyes trained on Byleth.

She feels Claude shift his weight, sees him smile out of the corner of her eye. "You asked for it! Time to do what we do best!"

He nocks another arrow, aiming for the creature's heart.

* * *

**Unification Year 70**  
  
Duchess Marianne von Aegir looks up at the painting of her husband, and smiles from her deathbed. Ferdinand had asked Ignatz to paint him right after the war, eyes laughing, long radiant hair streaming over his shoulders. It took years before Marianne would let either Ignatz or Ferdinand talk her into another portrait of her and Ferdinand, side by side...  
  
Slowly, she gathers her scattered thoughts, bringing them back to the here and now. The lights fade outside her door. One by one, her grandchildren and great-grandchildren creep off to let her rest. Marianne listens to them go, then turns to the two figures hiding outside on her balcony.  
  
"You can come in now."  
  
Silent as shadows, Claude and Byleth step through the open balcony door and close it behind them. Byleth refills the vase by Marianne's bedside, and the room floods with the sweet, bright scent of her favorite flowers.  
  
"The doctor says I shouldn't have flowers around," murmurs Marianne, though her eyes light up.  
  
"To hell with the doctor," says Claude. He sits at the foot of Marianne's bed, eyes glittering with unshed tears. "We almost didn't make it in time. You weren't going to leave without letting us say goodbye, right?"  
  
She laughs then, softly, and reaches for each of their hands. She squeezes their fingers with her own frail and wrinkled ones, looking up into green eyes that never change, and faces that never line.  
  
"Will the two of you be all right?" asks Marianne.  
  
Claude blinks furiously. "I...we'll manage. Maybe a nice vacation, somewhere by the sea. I think we've earned that much."  
  
"Oh, Claude...Professor." Marianne smiles at each of them in turn, the smile that brought the Golden Deer so much joy even in the darkest days of war, the smile that countless artists tried and failed to immortalize.

"Don't cry. I'm ready...it's time."  
  
They hold in their tears until they've said their goodbyes. Together, they watch Marianne drift off into dreamless sleep. Together, they slip out from the balcony and climb onto the roof of the Aegir estate, where a wyvern and a pegasus await them. It's too quiet, with no wind to break the deathly peace.  
  
On this day, they used to throw huge feasts at Garreg Mach. Lorenz would insist on one more cup of tea before people drifted off to bed. Raphael, Ignatz, Maea, and the family would leave little colorful handprints all over the walls of the dining hall. Nader loved to stake out his claim in the training grounds, trouncing Claude's many cousins despite the iron grey of his beard and hair.  
  
But now, it's just the two of them left.  
  
Claude tries to smile as he takes her hand. "So, how about that vacation? Fódlan can manage for a few decades without us."  
  
It's an old habit, and he has trouble breaking it. He needs to keep smiling, keep marching, no matter how his heart aches with each old friend they bury. But the paper-thin smile cracks when he sees the silent tears pouring down Byleth's face.

He throws himself into his wife's arms, burying his face against her neck. His shoulders shake, but he doesn't make a sound. She kisses his temple, runs her fingers through his eternally messy hair.  
  
"I thought it would get easier, you know?" he whispers. "With time. It never does."  
  
She tries to answer, but all that escapes her is a tiny, choked sob. Claude sniffs, steps back, and gently brushes the tears from her face. "Before you ask again...no regrets."  
  
He whistles to the wyvern, who obediently comes at his call. She's a beautiful pale amber, descendant to his original white wyvern, and she gives his tear-stained face an energetic lick. Claude squirms away, but his smile breaks through the grief of seeing off yet another friend.  
  
They mount their steeds and turn south, toward the endless blue of the sea and beyond.

* * *

**Unification Year 111**  
  
Enbarr is smaller now, quiet, far removed from the centers of power. There's a sleepy, almost dream-like quality to the city in the early evening, with the sun setting over the many old churches that still stand. Byleth and Claude stroll through the historic city center, where many of the noble estates have been converted into art galleries and museums. Fashionable couples promenade down the street or lounge in tea shops on the lower floors of the galleries.

"The Hevring Institute for Magical Technology." Claude stops before a beautiful brick building, peering at the statue atop the facade. "I guess the statue looks like Linhardt, but only if you squint."  
  
Byleth rolls her eyes at him. "Did you even read the plaque?"  
  
"No. It's barely legible." He sounds offended at the very thought.  
  
She swats his shoulder and laughs. "Claude, can you imagine Linhardt bothering to found an Institute? It was his son. He probably put the old noble family name on it because it sounded good."  
  
"Oh. _Oh_, I knew that nose was all wrong."  
  
The street along the canal slowly fills with people out for a walk before dinner. Byleth gets her fair share of funny looks...probably thanks to the long black scabbard on her back. "We need a better way to hide that thing," says Claude. "People don't carry swords around any more."  
  
"That's a good thing."  
  
"I agree, but it's still a problem. Maybe we could disguise it as one of those frilly umbrellas." He points out a woman in a floor-sweeping red dress, with a delicate lace umbrella perched on her shoulder like some strange, unwieldy bird.  
  
"A...frilly umbrella," says Byleth flatly. "A frilly umbrella that glows."  
  
"It was just a thought. And I'll remind you that keeping the Sword of the Creator was _your_ idea."  
  
He has a point. Failnaught has slept in a vault beneath Derdriu for decades now. Claude was never very attached to it, even if it features prominently in every statue, portrait, and relief of him. But everyone knows the tale of how the very first Queen of Dawn saved the Sword of the Creator. It's in children's books and nursery rhymes. Putting the sword back in the Holy Mausoleum isn't secure, and leaving it anywhere else feels...wrong to her.  
  
"How about an easel bag?" asks Claude. "We could hide the sword in one of those, at least while we walk around town."  
  
"Remember the year I spent learning to paint? Remember how you thought everything on the canvas looked like a cauliflower?"  
  
Claude laughs, planting a messy kiss on her cheek. "You are many things, my love. But not much of an artist." And she melts a little, like she always does. _My love_. She never tires of hearing him say it.

His lips move from her cheek down her jaw, his beard tickling relentlessly until she dissolves into giggles. "That's all right," he continues. "I know you have other talents."

Two can play at this game. She lets him have his way for a few moments, eyes darting around the street until she spots a narrow alley leading to one of the old churches. She hides her wicked grin in his shoulder, leading him toward the alley. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots a knot of elderly, well-dressed people shaking their heads at her and Claude.

Claude lets her pull him down the alley, past the obvious "CLOSED FOR RENOVATION" sign, and through the unlocked back gate of the old church. It's tiny, and the cloudy stained glass looks oddly familiar. But Claude slides a hand around her waist, and she shelves the thought for later.

He's already shedding his jacket, laying it carelessly over a dusty, untouched pew. He reaches for her shawl—and freezes when she gently but firmly closes her fingers over his throat. He gasps, swallows, his eyes suddenly coal-dark and pleading in the dim light. "Byleth..."

Slowly, she pushes him to his knees and steps forward. She drapes one leg over his shoulder, tangling her other hand in his thick, dark hair. She pulls, exposing his throat. Claude gazes up at her as if she's the sun, beckoning him home. His hands tighten on her thighs.

"My love," he whispers, his pulse fluttering under her fingers. "_Please_."

She nods, Claude's smile flashes...and their soft cries of pleasure echo to the rafters above.

* * *

**Unification Year 150**  
  
Sneaking into their own Unification Festival is Claude's idea. Doing it incognito is Byleth's; no one will notice two more revelers amidst the crowd. They slowly make their way up the wide granite stairs to the Dawn Palace; vendors line each massive step, hawking their festival wares. Masks, costumes, toy swords and bows for children, food and drink from all over the world...  
  
Byleth stops at a stall run by a tiny old lady, and picks up a glittering golden deer mask. "How much for this?"

The old woman gives her a strange look. "This your first festival, my dear? The Palace gives them out for everyone."

"Well, that's convenient." Claude comes up behind her, plucks the mask out of her fingers, and puts it on. It's suitably ridiculous, garish gold paint clashing horribly with his traveling clothes. The deer antlers are far too small, more like fawn stubs.

"What do you think? Handsome and dashing?" He strikes a pose, and the old woman lets out a wicked cackle.

"This one yours?" she asks, jerking her thumb at Claude. 

"Is it that obvious?" says Byleth with a wink. She selects a more subdued mask for herself, a black one dusted with patterns of the crescent moon, sun, and stars. 

"Hah! Go on, then. Don't let him get into too much trouble. You've still a long way to climb."

They wave goodbye to the old woman, winding their way through the growing crowd. The Dawn Palace itself looms high over Fódlan's Throat, a glittering gem in the noonday sun. Huge garden terraces dot the mountainside, each boasting magnificent fountains and plants from all over the world. The once-bare and forbidding valley now overflows with color, as far as the eye can see.

"I wonder who did all that landscaping," says Byleth. "It must've taken years..."  
  
"I heard the last King was quite a horticulturalist," says Claude absently. "We'll have to take a walk around the gardens later. Hey, look, festival cakes!" And he tugs on her hand, following the smell of honey and spices.  
  
They stop at a stall selling stacks of the deep-fried cakes, dripping with strands of honey. The teenage girl behind the counter is completely absorbed in her book; she barely gives them a second glance. Claude looks at Byleth, shrugs, and drops some money on the counter before helping himself to two festival cakes.  
  
"Hey!" says the girl, finally looking up.  
  
"You were distracted," says Claude around a full mouth. "Here, for your trouble." And he hands her another coin.  
  
The girl puzzles briefly over the square silver piece. "Huh. More people from Dagda every year."  
  
Byleth and Claude exchange a quick look. It's close enough to the truth; Dagda was their last destination before returning for the festival. "We just arrived," says Byleth. The girl shrugs, unconcerned, and pockets the third coin with a cheeky grin that reminds her powerfully of a younger Claude.  
  
"Not my problem. Have a good festival." And with that, she's right back to her book.  
  
"See, what'd I tell you?" says Claude, handing Byleth her festival cake. "No one's paying any attention to the two of us."  
  
She takes a careful bite of the sweet, sticky confection, and immediately gets honey and cinnamon all over her fingers. Meanwhile, Claude's managed to smear honey on his mask, right over the black deer nose. Laughing, Byleth tries to rub it off, and gets glitter all over herself for her trouble. "Look at us. We're a mess already."

"It's a party. If we're not messes by the end of it, we're doing it wrong."

There's singing up ahead, accompanied by the distinctive twang of an Almyran harp. It's hard to hear the singer over the chattering crowd, but as they move closer, she catches a short refrain:

"Verdant rains soothe / My aching heart like a cherished friend / Amid time’s flow I mourn / Bonds I’m not sure I can ever rend..."

Claude stops in his tracks, wide-eyed, and Byleth nearly walks into him. He shoulders his way up to the two performers, listening to them in open-mouthed wonder.

"Claude, that's..."

"Manuela and Lorenz's song, I know," he whispers back. "Shh."

She remembers the first time she heard Manuela sing this, during their haphazard celebrations on the anniversary of Nemesis's defeat. Lorenz had hidden himself at the very back of the room for a change, brilliant red but beaming. She closes her eyes, letting the singer's voice mix with her memory. A few fond tears well up behind her mask. Bonds she can never rend...

She feels Claude slip his arm through hers. "They're done," he murmurs. She opens her eyes to see him dropping two large gold coins in the singer's basket. The young musician hears the heavy clink, and blinks up at Claude in disbelief.

With a small smile, he and Byleth vanish back into the crowd, just two more in a sea of thousands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We don't know a whole lot about Almyra, so I borrowed from the historical Achaemenid and Parthian Empires for the unified Kingdom of Dawn. These two sources seemed particularly appropriate, since there are already a lot of Persian influences in Claude's clothing and the sigil for Almyra.


	3. The Crucible

**Unification Year 209**  
  
The troubles start in Dagda, with a diplomatic gaffe. A careless comment from an ambassador, something that should've been smoothed over, turns sour. It escalates into a personal feud between the young, overambitious King of Dawn and the ruling families of Dagda. _That_ turns into an assassination attempt on the King...and within a year, the flames of war burn across the sea.  
  
Byleth and Claude watch from a lighthouse overlooking Nuvelle's harbor, as warships gather and sailors swarm like ants. "This won't end well," says Byleth. "Dagdan advisors helped train _our_ navy, back in the day. They're the best sailors in the world."  
  
Claude doesn't answer. Instead, he counts ships. Three hundred to four hundred crew per ship. So far, they've seen at least twelve warships leave the harbor, each pair accompanying several transports. Who knows how many more are on their way?  
  
"We have to _do_ something." She can see the gears turning in Claude's head, fuzzy outlines of plans beginning to take shape. "Our peace with Dagda lasted for more than two centuries. We can't just sit by and let this happen."

He's pacing now, talking more to himself than her. "Assassinating the admiral won't work; the King can just appoint a replacement. Ugh, why did we spend so much time in Albinea?! Why weren't we _here,_ when everything started sliding?"

Byleth rests a hand on Claude's arm, nervously looking about for any eavesdroppers. The lighthouse is isolated, but they can never be too careful. "How could we have possibly known?"  
  
"I'm not sure, but we _should_ have!" His words come out sharp with frustration.

"Claude...you can't expect that of either of us. We're immortal, not all-knowing."

Claude stops in his tracks, frustration giving way to resignation. He reaches for her hand, absently pressing it to his cheek. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you, but...I just think we still have responsibilities. We _founded_ the Kingdom of Dawn. Shouldn't we try to fix it when things go awry?"  
  
"Do we have that right?" Byleth stares out at the vast expanse of ocean, and the tiny dots of ships crawling over its surface. "Are we any different from Rhea if we intervene?"  
  
They both shiver. Byleth might've found some sympathy for Rhea at the end...but she'd sooner sail off the edge of the earth than end up like the late archbishop, forever pulling on invisible strings.  
  
"I don't know." Claude drops his head into his hands. "I don't think so. We're trying to stop the bloodshed, not impose our will on anybody."  
  
That's wishful thinking, and they both know it. They learned that bitter lesson early, in the jaws of war. "Claude, we might _have_ to impose our will to bring peace. What then?"  
  
Claude looks up at her, his face set and still. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, we need information. We've been out of the loop for too long."  
  
"Tavern?" she asks with a smile. Some things in the world never change.  
  
"Tavern." He looks better as soon as they have a plan to follow, something they can _do_. "You want to do the drinking, or should I?"  
  
Byleth considers it. She can drink almost anybody under the table, but Claude's a more amiable drinking partner, better at wheedling information out of even the most reluctant patrons. "You start. I'll take over if you're getting too tipsy."  
  
The prospect of drinks does nothing for the tight, heavy knot of dread that slowly settles in her stomach. Something in the air reminds her of her first year at the monastery, when the storm clouds gathered, and the war started rumbling under their feet.   
  
Claude gently pulls her into his arms. "We'll be fine," he whispers, his breath warm in her hair. "We can do this."  
  
Byleth doesn't answer. He sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as her.

* * *

**Unification Year 219**  
  
Blood flows through the gardens of the Dawn Palace as Byleth and Claude stalk their prey. There are no shouts of alarm, no guards' feet pounding through the halls. No one walks the gardens but the two of them...and the man who spat on their legacy of peace. The unworthy, unruly brat who threatens everything with his carelessness and stupidity.  
  
They catch up to the King near an ostentatious fountain, hidden by high hedges. He collapses at the foot of his own marble statue, leaving red smears on the ankles and feet. Byleth lingers a few steps back, listening for trouble. She's done her work; this man is as good as dead. If they don't finish him, there are plenty of others with every reason to do it.  
  
But Claude steps forward, watching impassively as the last King of his family line chokes on blood and water. He pushes back his hood, his smile knife-sharp in the darkness.  
  
"Do you know who I am?" asks Claude.  
  
The King can't answer; Byleth's sword already slit his throat. But his eyes bulge wildly at the sight of Claude. He scrabbles for the dagger at his belt with one hand, clutching his gaping throat with the other. Claude kicks the blade out of his hands, contempt in every line of his face.  
  
Despite his hefty stature, the fallen King of Dawn looks...young. Unready. Like a child drowning, with his wide brown eyes, soft curly hair, and guileless round face. In another life, another place, it might've been Claude himself falling to an assassin's blade. Byleth's heart seizes, and she looks away before the final blow falls.  
  
Claude has no such qualms. She hears the thud of the arrow hitting the King's heart, and his soft, startled gasp before he collapses into the fountain. His head hits the marble base with a dull crack. Claude puts two more arrows through his throat, for insurance. When he's satisfied, he rinses his hands clean in the fountain.  
  
Byleth's eyes dart every which way. "Claude, we need to get out of here. The guards could arrive at any moment." They've poisoned enough of the guards to prevent a general alarm, but even that precaution will wear off soon.  
  
Claude folds his arms, staring down at the King they murdered. "Maybe we should let them find us," he says, cold fury in every word.  
  
"No!" She grabs his arm, but he stiffens, unmoving. "This isn't what we discussed! If we stay here, we'll just have to fight our way out!"  
  
"They might ask us to stay."  
  
Byleth shivers, despite the warm evening. This is Claude, _her Claude_, calmly suggesting a palace coup with the late King dead at his feet. He looks up at her, dead-eyed, and she suddenly realizes he was considering this all along. "There's a civil war brewing. The late King's generals will kill each other and anyone else in their way to seize the Dawn Throne. Byleth, we could avert that war if we stayed."  
  
"You don't know that for sure! We might just create another faction and prolong the violence."  
  
"We've taken on worse odds," he persists.  
  
"Only when we _had_ to. We don't have to seize the Dawn Throne. We can do this another way." She reaches for his hand, sees doubt flickering through his anger. "Claude...do you trust me?"  
  
Slowly, the fury melts from his face. He lowers his bow. "With my life. With everything I am."  
  
She steps over the slumped body, grasping both of Claude's shoulders. "I know we're both angry, and we're both scared. To think that everything we built might end here..." She presses her forehead against Claude's, feels him shiver. "Please, my love. Trust me when I say that staying would be a terrible idea."  
  
She's not even sure it was a good idea to assassinate the King. History can judge them for that later.

The snap of a twig breaks the silence; they both whirl, weapons at the ready. A lone soldier steps around the hedge...completely unarmed. He has both hands in the air, and he clutches a sealed letter like a lifeline.   
  
"Your Majesties." The soldier sinks to one knee before them. Byleth and Claude glance at one another, wary of some ploy. "I bear a message from Lady Aurelia."  
  
The name rings a bell. Lady Aurelia, general of the west, who sat back, bided her time, and gathered her forces while rival generals grasped toward the Dawn Throne. Byleth keeps the Sword of the Creator pointed at the kneeling soldier while Claude takes the letter from his hands.  
  
Claude reads quickly, his eyebrows climbing higher with every line. "Lady Aurelia claims that she's already in control of several key Fódlan ports. She's asked to meet with us in Derdriu, and promises us safe passage with her messenger." He barks out a laugh. "Safe passage? If I were her, I'd kill us the moment we got there."  
  
Byleth shakes her head. She knows where this train of thought is going, but there are other possibilities. "Clearly she's been following our activities. If she wanted us dead, wouldn't she have tried already?"  
  
"Or she was just biding her time, until we killed the King for her. It's what I would've done."  
  
The soldier at their feet clears his throat. "Your Majesties...if I may?"  
  
Claude flushes a little, visible even in the starlight. "I'm sorry, of course. Say whatever you want."  
  
The soldier laughs dryly and stands, looking over Claude's shoulder at the late King's body. "No offense taken, Your Majesty."  
  
Byleth quickly sheathes the Sword of the Creator, and the soldier's eyes dart to her, something like awe dawning over his face. "When Lady Aurelia told me who I might be meeting, I thought it was some kind of code phrase. I never imagined..." He shakes his head, unable to take his eyes off the sword at Byleth's side.  
  
Claude smiles, though it stays a mile wide of his calm, appraising eyes. "What did you want to say?"  
  
The soldier straightens, clearing his throat once more. Now that Byleth can see his face, she realizes he's quite young, barely older than she and Claude were during their first war.  
  
"There's still fighting in Dagda, and Lady Aurelia is the only one who's willing to make peace. All the other generals think they have to see the war through, out of pride or sheer stupidity." He spits in the grass, his every word laced with disgust. "I lost my brother in Dagda. Lady Aurelia was there herself; she understands the futility of continuing the fight."  
  
Loyalty. Byleth hears it in his voice, true and clear as a bell. Aurelia chose her messenger wisely. She exchanges a long look with Claude; finally, he folds up the letter and nods. If they want this olive branch to mean anything, they have to move fast. They might have all the time in the world...but the Kingdom of Dawn does not.  
  
"All right," says Byleth. "We'll go with you. What's your name?"  
  
For the first time, the man looks abashed. He glances at Byleth, looks down at his own feet.  
  
"I...it's Jeralt, Your Majesty."  
  
Byleth's jaw drops. She knew people named their children after famous heroes, but meeting someone named for her own father...is downright surreal. "It's nice to meet you, Jeralt," she says slowly. The name is rusty on her tongue, but she likes the sound. "Lead the way, and stop treating us so formally. We're just Byleth and Claude these days."  
  
"I'll try to remember that, Your Majesty."  
  
Claude chuckles. "Oh, and please don't try to kill us. You seem like a decent person, and that would be awkward."  
  
Jeralt's laugh is soft and easygoing, exactly the opposite of his famous namesake. "I won't try to kill you, and I won't let anyone else try. I like living." He sobers then, looking Byleth and Claude in the eyes for the first time. "I swear it on my brother's memory."  
  
The three of them creep out of the Dawn Palace, using the gardeners' entrance on the terraces and scaling down the treacherous western mountainside. Jeralt's a bit ahead of them; he already has horses waiting at the bottom of the mountain. If nothing else, Aurelia and her messenger are well-prepared, and well-informed.  
  
Claude stops at the last terrace. He looks back up at the Dawn Palace; lights finally blaze in the windows, and they can hear the shouting of Palace guards. "Do you think we did the right thing?" he asks.  
  
"I don't know." Byleth gives his hand a squeeze, relieved that the cold, remorseless fury has passed him by. "We'll find out, together."

* * *

**Unification Year 225**  
  
Years after the war's end, bones still litter the pristine white sands of northwestern Dagda. The locals call it the Bay of Teeth. Shipwrecked sailors, Dagdan defenders, mercenaries from all over the world...they all died on these shores. They lie in a jumble beneath the sand, smashed against the coral reefs, buried beneath the silt on the shallow sea floor. Rusted weapons, pieces of shipwrecks, and pillaged cargo crates litter the coastline for miles.  
  
Claude stands on the ruined remains of a fishing pier. He's stripped to the waist, skin dark from months in the sun. "Odds on what we'll find today?" he asks.  
  
"I'm feeling optimistic," says Byleth from her hiding place under a large umbrella. It's still morning, and the sun is already relentless. "Maybe an old war chest and a few flags."  
  
"A war chest. We're aiming high today." He scrambles to the end of the pier, gauging the faraway waves. The wind's pretty calm today, and the water is crystal clear. He catches Byleth staring at the drops of water rolling down his chest. "Hey, are you coming? Do I have to do all the work _and _be the pretty one?"  
  
Byleth laughs. She finishes rubbing thick green mud over her skin; the first day, she'd tried to go without any sun protection, and bitterly regretted that for a week after. "I'm coming, I'm coming."  
  
Claude grins as she climbs up onto the pier next to him. "You look like a cabbage." He kisses her cheek, then wrinkles his nose, rubbing a trace of the mud off his own lips. "A beautiful, sun-kissed cabbage."  
  
She unceremoniously shoves him into the water. Claude splutters, flailing wildly before he gets his bearings. "You're gonna pay for that later!" he shouts up at her.  
  
"Promises, promises." Byleth eases into the water more carefully, fitting her thin tortoiseshell eyepieces into place. They're not quite watertight, and she has to empty them out each time she surfaces, but it's better than saltwater endlessly rubbing against her eyes. She catches her own reflection in the water and snickers. She does look like a cabbage...a weird bug-eyed cabbage.  
  
Claude's already well ahead of her; he's the stronger swimmer, and he likes scanning large sections of the coast. A few small fish brush past her, and she smiles. It's good to see life amidst all the devastation. But her smile vanishes when she spots something white, glinting through a tangle of kelp.  
  
She takes a deep breath and dives, tugging the object free from its prison. It drifts up into her hands, covered in mud and clinging strands of kelp.  
  
Byleth surfaces and pulls off her goggles, gently washing away all the muck. The sun glimmers off a cracked human jawbone; a few teeth cling to dark sockets. Such small teeth...  
  
"Hey, what have you got there?"  
  
Claude paddles back to her, removing the tortoiseshells from his own eyes. He drifts to a stop when he sees the jawbone in her hands. "Oh, Byleth..."  
  
She wants to let go, but her fingers hold fast, frozen on the row of tiny teeth. "It's nothing," she whispers, but her throat tightens, and the words die in her throat. "It's..."  
  
"Come here." Claude gently pries her hands loose, and the jawbone drifts back down into the water. "Let's go back to the encampment. I think we can take a day off."  
  
_Why?_ It's all she can think, and she sobs it into Claude's shoulder when he holds her, the warm Dagdan sea lapping around their waists. Over a decade of fighting, a difficult and unpopular peace...and this is what they have to show for it. She feels Claude sigh, hears the rumble of him saying something. The cold jolt of horror slowly washes away as she listens to his soft, steady breathing.  
  
"We can leave any time you want," he murmurs. "Go somewhere else, do something else..."  
  
Byleth sniffles and shakes her head. "No. We made a promise, remember?"  
  
Hand in hand, they walk back up the beach to the makeshift scavenger encampment, above the high tide line. Most of the scavengers are out for the day, searching amidst the waves. But their leader, a kind-faced woman named Marta, still sits outside her tent. She waves at Byleth and Claude when she sees them.  
  
"Back already?" she asks.  
  
"We weren't feeling well," Claude fibs.  
  
Marta gives them a knowing look. "Got something for you. Might just be what you were looking for."  
  
After two seasons searching, Byleth knows better than to hope. But she holds out her hand anyway. Marta drops a ring into her palm. The gold's scratched and dented, but the sigil of the Almyran Naval Academy is still clear as day. With trembling fingers, Byleth turns the ring over, checking the inside engraving.  
  
It's all there, just as Jeralt described it. The graduation date from the Naval Academy, stamped on the inside of the ring. The family initials scratched on the opposite side. She gives Claude a tired smile. "His brother's ring...I wasn't sure if we'd ever find it."  
  
"I was. We had all the time in the world to look for it." Claude glances at Marta, who's watching them like a hawk. "Marta, name your price."  
  
"Oh ho ho! Not very clever of you, lad. What if I asked you for an arm and a leg, eh?"  
  
Claude chuckles. "Come on, Marta, what would you do with an arm and a leg? Besides, I can offer you something better than that." He tugs on his long hair, pulling out one of the pins that holds it in place. An emerald-eyed serpent glitters on the end of the ornate silver pin, and he places it in Marta's palm.  
  
Marta stares at the glittering pin, then up at Claude. She looks each of them over, as if seeing them for the first time. "Mercenaries, eh?" she says, very quietly.  
  
Neither of them answer. Before Marta can change her mind, Byleth pockets the graduation ring. She and Claude rush to pack up their own tent. They'll be gone before the rest of the scavengers return, and sailing away before anybody puts the pieces together.  
  
"Back to the Dawn Palace. I can't wait to see the look on Jeralt's face. But after that..." Claude trails off thoughtfully.  
  
"Garreg Mach?"  
  
The thought pops into Byleth's head, unbidden. No matter how far she wanders, some part of her will always think of Garreg Mach Monastery as home, even if she only spent a few years there. Just imagining the high stone walls and cozy dormitories makes her feel better.  
  
Claude's gentle, wistful smile is all the answer she needs. "All right. Let's go home."

* * *

**Unification Year 240**

The fourth attempt on Queen Aurelia's life almost succeeds, but three days later, she's awake and demanding updates of everyone in earshot. The nurses have Aurelia propped up on a mountain of pillows, reading reports from the Dawn Palace's private infirmary.

"Ugh, does it ever end?" Aurelia asks, pinching her temples in disgust. She spots Claude grinning at her from across the room. "Don't answer that."

Byleth and Claude laugh, a welcome sound in the cramped and heavily guarded infirmary. Six guards watch the doors and windows, with more waiting outside. Every scrap of food goes through two different tasters. Every creak around the room summons even more guards to investigate. Even opening the windows for fresh air is an ordeal.

"Believe me, I understand," says Byleth as she carefully pours a small cup of tea. She hands it off to the first taster before pouring some for herself and Claude. "I've been there, lying in bed and wanting to claw the walls open."

"Oh?" Aurelia sets the paperwork aside, drumming her fingers on her pillows. "Who tried to kill you?"

Byleth glances at Claude. "Um...I don't remember. Do you?"

"Which time?" asks Claude.

She racks her brains. By now, the various attempts on her life have started running together in her head. Emperors and paupers, generals and pickpockets, the honorable and the vicious alike...it seems every sort of person has tried to kill her at some point or another. "The...second time?"

"Oh." His expression darkens. "That was one of my uncles. He would've had a shot at the Almyran throne, but I ruined it for him. The idiot took it out on Byleth instead of me."

"Ah, that's right! Your mother stabbed him with a serving knife when he tried to run for it."

Aurelia's lips quirk as she listens to them banter. "You two are insane."

Claude raises his eyebrows over his own cup of tea. No one bothers with the additional tasters for him or Byleth. "You've been leading troops for decades. Aren't you used to people trying to kill you?"

"I don't mind someone trying to kill me on the battlefield. That's just survival and good sense, nothing personal. But this..." Aurelia coughs, bringing up a few drops of blood. "This is _aggravating_, and very personal."

"Actually, it's not." Claude drains his tea and sets his cup aside, uncharacteristically serious. "No one's trying to kill you for who you are. You might be grouchy, humorless, and as jaded as they come—"

Byleth clears her throat. "Claude..."

"Come on, that's part of her charm." He gives Aurelia and Byleth his usual grin; neither of them even blink. "Oof, rough crowd. Anyway, Aurelia...people are trying to kill you for what you _represent_. They're afraid of what you've done already, and what you might do in the future. It's still survival in your assassins' minds, just a different sort."

Aurelia's quiet for a long, long time. She accepts the tea from her taster and stares into the cup. Her own reflection gazes back at her; hard lines crease her face, and streaks of silver glimmer in her short dark hair.

"Hmph. Maybe you aren't always full of bullshit," says Aurelia quietly.

"Aww." Claude gives Aurelia a cheeky wink, which she pointedly ignores. "That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me." 

The nurses shoo Byleth and Claude out well before sunset. Even with the doors closed and firmly locked, they can hear Aurelia arguing with her own attendants, insisting that she needs to get more done before she sleeps. Claude winks at Byleth. "Remind you of anyone?"

She shuts him up with a firm kiss. "Yes," she whispers when they part, her lips a hairsbreadth from his. "A certain troublemaker who always fell asleep in the library."

Claude groans. "You don't get to make fun of me for that any more."

"I do. You still call me Teach every now and then."

One of the guards outside the infirmary coughs uncomfortably. Claude actually laughs at the poor fellow. "All right, all right, we'll be on our way. Have a good evening!" With a cheerful wave at the furiously blushing guard, he and Byleth make their way out of the royal wing. The Dawn Palace is quiet and eerily still; most people hunker down in the days after an assassination attempt, but not the two of them.

Claude casually winds his arm around her waist; his lips brush the shell of her ear. "Hey, Teach?"

A pleasant shiver runs down Byleth's spine. "Yes?"

His eyes gleam with both mischief and an evening of promise. "Sneak into the library with me?"

* * *

**Unification Year 265**  
  
The ruin in the middle of Lake Teutates still stands tall, the ever-present fog shrouding the water's surface. Claude lies back and lets his toes dangle in the water, his head resting in Byleth's lap. "Ahh...I do love family reunions."

Far above their heads, the Immovable snorts. "What a strange, perverse family." The ancient saint's voice shakes the very stones on which they sit, vibrations rattling around in Byleth's chest.  
  
"What, you don't believe me?" Claude shifts a bit in her lap, grinning up at Saint Indech's reptilian face. "Should I start calling you Uncle too?"  
  
"Your partner is the incarnation of my mother, whose blood also flows in your veins." Indech leans down to get a closer look at Claude, yellow eyes glinting. "What would a human call that?"  
  
Claude scratches his head. "Uh...well, I guess Byleth would be your mother, sort of. But not really...maybe your stepmother? So I'd be your stepfather?" He wrinkles his nose. "Ugh, no, that sounds terrible."  
  
Byleth groans, lightly flicking her husband on the ear. "Claude, please shut up. Saint Indech, please ignore Claude's ramblings if he doesn't shut up."  
  
Indech actually _chuckles_ at her obvious discomfort, a low, spine-tingling rumble that echoes across the foggy lake. "Hmph. _Saint_. Let us settle for names alone, shall we?"  
  
That works just fine for Byleth. Even now, she tries not to think too hard about Rhea, Sothis, and herself. It just makes her head hurt, and it hardly matters any more. Rhea's long dead. Sothis is part of her now. The rest is ancient history. "I thought Seteth and Flayn were coming?" she asks no one in particular, casting about for a change in topic.  
  
Indech lifts his head, gazing out into the fog. "My brother is usually punctual."  
  
"You can say that again. Seteth was such a stickler for keeping us on schedule at the Academy." Claude sits up, clears his throat, and squares his shoulders, mimicking Seteth's imperious manner. "Does your professor know that you are _loitering_ about the dining hall? Are you aware that weapons drills began _three_ minutes ago? Will anyone help me remove this pole up my—"  
  
"Ahem."  
  
Seteth and Flayn finally arrive, climbing up the stone steps to the huge dais where they sit. Seteth glares pointedly at Claude, who grins back, utterly shameless. "Hey, you made it!"  
  
"I heard all of that," says Seteth, stone-faced.  
  
"Of course you did. That was the whole point."  
  
The corners of Seteth's mouth twitch. Flayn marches right past him to hug Claude and Byleth. Then she looks up at the huge bulk of Saint Indech and frowns. "I am not sure how you want me to hug _you_, Uncle. But it seems impolite to leave you out."  
  
Indech shuffles forward, inclining his head toward her, and only huffs once when Flayn throws her arms around his long neck. "Oh, it is so good to see all of you again! What have you been doing?"  
  
"Singing mournful tunes to the fog," says Indech.  
  
"Really, Uncle?"  
  
"No."  
  
Flayn pouts at him, and a pointed sort of smirk spreads across Indech's reptilian face. He tilts his head toward Byleth and Claude. "These two have been busy. Ask them."  
  
"You have no idea," says Byleth. She and Claude exchange a small, tired smile. The years of Queen Aurelia's reign were some of the busiest in their lives, putting out fires from one end of the continent to the other. Every corner of the Kingdom of Dawn has felt the imprint of their feet, several times over. It's like Claude always said when he was King; conflict is normal. Peace is hard.  
  
"I might have some idea," says Seteth. "The two of you look...frankly, you look exhausted."  
  
"Thanks," grumbles Claude. "You might as well call us old while you're at it." But he perks up at bit at the sight of Flayn's picnic basket. He helps himself to a sandwich, leaning back in Byleth's lap with a contented sigh. "So, what do you do to relax for a few decades?"  
  
"Sleep," rumbles Indech. His eyes start to close once more.  
  
"We return to the Rhodos Coast," says Flayn. "Ah, I could enjoy the sea for year after year. You are most welcome to join us."  
  
Byleth laughs and shakes her head. That won't work for them. She knows Claude will go stir-crazy if he has to sit and fish for years on end. "We'll be fine," she says, sneaking a bite from Claude's sandwich. "I'm sure we can find other ways to occupy ourselves."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're into serious extrapolation territory in this chapter and the next one, which will be the last. Historically, even the most long-lived and stable empires undergo periods of intense upheaval where a lot of things happen in a very short period of time. That's why most of the dates in this chapter are rather close to one another. I drew from various civil wars of the Roman and Achaemenid Empires for inspiration. 
> 
> Also, I like playing with Claude's colder, more ruthless side. It's easy to forget when his counterparts in Three Houses are Edelgard, Dimitri, and Rhea. But Claude does have an edge, even if he hides it behind a smile most of the time.


	4. For Every Dawn to Come

**Unification Year 311**  
  
Byleth and Claude sprint down the narrow alleys between Morfis's gleaming towers. A livid trail of blood drips from Claude's left shoulder despite her best efforts at healing him. But the dock—their salvation—is just a few blocks away. Metal wheels click and echo behind them...gaining, always gaining. Byleth curses as she hears the distinct whine of another bolt; this one embeds itself in the pavement, inches behind her heel.  
  
She whirls when the next bolt flies; the Sword of the Creator snaps to life, sending the deadly projectile careening back toward her assailant. It pings off the automaton's thick, gleaming armor. Glowing blue eyes turn toward her, and the automaton snaps its arm up, aiming another shot at her heart.  
  
She can't stand and fight, but she can buy them some precious minutes. With another crack, the Sword of the Creator scrapes the sides of the alley; planter boxes, bricks, awnings, and wood come crashing down. The automaton stops, its gears grinding in the dust and debris. She turns on her heel and keeps running, following the trail of blood that Claude leaves behind.  
  
They burst out of the warren of alleys and into the lower docks. The smugglers' cutter is there, waiting for them. Dark shapes on the deck wave them on, shouting in a variety of languages. With a final, desperate burst of energy, Byleth and Claude jump the last few feet and crash onto the deck. Claude lies atop a tangle of nets, motionless.  
  
Byleth groans, heaving herself to her feet. She hauls Claude upright; his blood soaks her clothes as she half-carries, half-drags him toward the stairs. Another hail of bolts fall from the sky, as more automata burst onto the docks. One bolt barely misses her cheek. Still more fall into the water, mere feet away from the ship's stern.  
  
The ship's captain shouts at Byleth in Dagdan. "Below, below! You're sitting ducks out here!" The deck turns into a whirlwind of motion and yelling; Byleth squeezes it all out, focused on getting Claude somewhere safe. Step by step, inch by torturous inch, she backs the two of them down into the hold. She leans Claude up against a pile of unmarked crates, trying not to think about how much blood he's already lost.  
  
He clutches a scroll case in his bloody fingers; his head lolls as he smiles weakly at her. "We did it?" he asks.  
  
"Shh. Try not to move."  
  
He shakes his head, some urgency cutting through his obvious pain. "Byleth...tell me."  
  
Byleth smiles back, despite their precarious position. The ship rocks around them, and she hears cheers from the deck above as their sails catch a favorable breeze.  
  
"Yes, we did it. We're heading home," she says soothingly. She's exhausted, at the last ends of her strength, but she finds enough to weave a delicate web of healing magic, sealing it over Claude's gaping wound. The bolt went right through the meat of his shoulder, a neat round puncture from one side to the other. It takes several tries just to staunch the bleeding. Byleth leans closer, examining the orange oily residue around his injury.  
  
She swears under her breath. Magebane, the notorious toxin of Morfis assassins. No wonder why Claude's wound resists magical healing. Just as she's starting to panic, she hears footsteps coming down the stairs. Byleth reaches for her sword, but it's just the Dagdan captain.  
  
They don't know each others' names; it's safer this way. The captain has bandages in one hand, and a foul-smelling paste of herbs in the other. She hands both of them to Byleth. "You're lucky," says the captain bluntly. "If that shot hit an artery..."  
  
Byleth doesn't want to think about it. She takes the medical supplies with a grateful smile, and begins dressing Claude's wound.  
  
"Oh, you have no idea how lucky we are," says Claude. He shifts a little, letting the captain see the scroll case in his hand.  
  
The captain's violet eyes widen. "You crazy bastards, I didn't think you'd actually _do_ it!" She glares at Claude in particular, wonder and annoyance warring on her face. "Do the mages of Morfis _know _what you stole?"  
  
Byleth shakes her head. "Not yet. If they did, every ship in the fleet would be after us."  
  
The captain laughs sourly. "Ugh. I'm doubling your fee back to Derdriu, and you owe me drinks for the rest of your lives." Her eyes soften a bit when she sees Claude wince in pain. "Get some rest, and see to that shoulder."  
  
She leaves them alone, slamming the hatch shut behind her. Byleth hastily takes the scroll case from Claude, wiping it clean. "You just couldn't resist a little gloating," she says.  
  
"We stole fire from the gods." Now that they're alone, he lets her see the full extent of his agony, his lips pressed together and eyes screwed shut. "I think that's worth a little gloating."  
  
"Shh. Hold still." Byleth finishes dressing his shoulder, then fashions the rest of the bandages in a makeshift sling. She'll try magic again, tomorrow, when there's less magebane in his blood. But it will be days before the toxin fully leaves his body, and by then...  
  
"You'll be fine," she says, as much for herself as for him. "But you'll have a hell of a scar, and you'll need therapy to recover." Months of it...perhaps a year before his muscles fully heal and his old strength returns.  
  
Claude smiles at her, a faint shadow of his old, confident grin. "You have to admit...It was completely worth it."  
  
Byleth _tsks_ at him, and gently tips an elixir down his throat. A bit of color comes back to his cheeks. His labored breathing eases. He slumps against her chest, his eyes slowly closing despite his best efforts to stay awake.  
  
"You heard the captain," she scolds. "Get some rest."  
  
"What if we're attacked again?"  
  
"I'll handle it. I'm good in a fight." The two of them laugh, exhausted and a little giddy from their near-run escape. Claude finally lets his eyes close. He dozes fitfully in Byleth's arms, while she looks over their hard-won prize.  
  
With trembling fingers, she unlocks the scroll case and examines each piece of paper inside. It's all here—schematics for the lightning condenser, airships, floating rails, and a dozen other marvels of Morfis.  
  
It's all coming home with them.

* * *

**Unification Year 384**  
  
Lightning ships race across the seas, bringing with them new goods, people, ideas, inventions...and plague vermin, silently scuttling from ship to shore. Quarantine zones and emergency hospitals spring up all over the Kingdom of Dawn. Ports close, charities kick into overdrive...and Claude paces outside the largest hospital in Fhirdiad, on the verge of tearing his hair out. They've weathered storms like this before, but the current outbreak is worse than any in recent memory.  
  
Byleth finally emerges from the hospital, shaking her head. "The quarantine's slowing the spread, but there's no reliable innoculation. All we can do is ease the symptoms." Her hands are red from scrubbing them after each patient she heals. No one ever asks questions about the sudden appearance of a gifted healer during times of crisis; the doctors are too overtaxed to care.  
  
But Claude's had enough, and she knows it before he even speaks. "Byleth..."  
  
"I know. I won't argue."  
  
Claude all but collapses with relief. He tries not to look at all the other people waiting outside the hospital, kept from their loved ones by the strict quarantine. Byleth also stares at her feet as they hurry away from the hospital. This never _feels_ right to her. It always feels like she's abandoning people who need her...people whom she could save.  
  
But Claude needs her more than anyone else. As much as the guilt weighs on her heart, she would never forgive herself for abandoning him. And so she goes, the two of them slipping out of the city like fugitives, with nothing but the pack on their backs. They march north well into the night, though progress is slow off of the main roads. Now, they're just trying to survive, like everyone else. The fewer people they encounter, the better.  
  
"You're all right?" Claude keeps asking her.  
  
"I'm fine. No symptoms."  
  
They have a system for this sort of crisis, a network of hiding places and temporary shelters. It'll take them weeks to reach the remote, lonely cabin in Sreng while avoiding the quarantines; she hopes no thieves have disturbed their supply caches. They stop for the night in a narrow valley, well after the moon rises. Claude starts setting up their tents; she hears a rope snap, followed by his soft cursing.  
  
"Here, let me help."  
  
Claude shakes his head. "You need rest. You haven't been sleeping well, and..."  
  
He can't bring himself to say it. He won't even entertain the thought of her falling sick. They've faced empires and monsters and every kind of peril...but this particular foe isn't something they can fight. She hears his tense breathing in the silence, sees him hunched over the half-raised tent. His shoulders shake as he strains with the ropes, a task he's done thousands of times before.  
  
Gently, she pulls the ropes and stakes out of his hands. Gently, she rubs his back. He looks up, desperately searching her face.  
  
"Can I ask for something selfish?" he whispers. "You don't have to agree to anything. Just let me ask."  
  
She nods, swallowing around the tight lump in her throat.  
  
"I know how terrible it sounds, and I won't make any excuses. But please...don't do this again." He falls to his knees, hands shaking as he reaches for her. "It's...it's harder to bear each time."  
  
_For as long as your heart can bear it._ Rhea's dying words echo in her mind, and before she knows it, she's sinking to her knees next to Claude. Her Claude, her sun and moon and stars, who risked so much just to see each dawn with her.  
  
"I'm sorry," she whispers back, burying her hands in his hair. "I'm sorry for scaring you. I...I won't do it again." She knows he hates admitting fear or weakness, knows how much it cost him to ask.  
  
They hold each other under the distant starlight that filters through the trees, until Byleth starts shivering in the cold. "Come on," says Claude. His voice breaks over the words. "Help me with this?"  
  
It take some fumbling before they have anything resembling shelter, their stiff fingers struggling with the ropes and stakes. Claude shakes out his bedroll and flops into it, clothes and all, bringing her with him. He's still shivering, and not from the cold.  
  
Before he can even ask, she answers his unspoken question. "You're not a terrible person," she says firmly. "We're still human. There are some things that..." She thinks of what tonight might have been like without him...of all the long, cold, and lonely centuries that she might have faced. Yet the thoughts soon slide from her mind, impossible to grasp; she can't even imagine life without Claude any more.

She takes a deep breath, tries again. "There are some things that no one can endure."

She can't see his face in the darkness, but she feels the tears on his cheeks when he kisses her. He says nothing, but there's gratitude and profound relief in each trembling brush of his lips on hers.  
  
"Try to get some sleep," she whispers. "I'll be here. I promise."  
  
She's kept every other promise she ever made to him. She'll be damned before she breaks this one.

* * *

**Unification Year 420**  
  
Claude peers up at the relief of himself and Byleth, his face hidden under a dark, wide-brimmed hat. "They never get the noses right," he laments. "Did you notice that?" His voice carries down the long museum gallery, and a few other patrons throw dirty looks their way.  
  
Byleth stifles a laugh. "Shh. I think it's stylized."  
  
"No, I think the sculptor just favors you," says Claude. "You look much better than I do, even if they made you too tall." He smirks and pats the top of her head.  
  
"You're pushing your luck, Claude."  
  
He grins, ruffles her short green hair, and lets Byleth lead him further along the exhibit hall. A gleaming, polished plaque on the far wall reads: "CROWN AND SWORD: THE FIRST CENTURY IN MUSIC, POETRY, AND SCULPTURE."  
  
They pause again before a collection of painstakingly reconstructed pottery. Byleth leans down to read the little tags that accompany each piece. There's a perfume bottle, a beautiful alabaster vase, and something she doesn't recognize at all, mislabeled as a ceremonial flask—  
  
"A chamberpot?" says Claude incredulously. "Byleth..." He dissolves into a fit of giggles, and hastily stuffs his fist in his mouth when a sharp-eyed curator glances their way.  
  
"I know, I know, shut up!" she whispers through her own snickering. There, in the very next display case, stands a vaguely familiar chamberpot. She'd recognize the brilliant shade of blue-green anywhere, not to mention the strange pattern of tiny winged beasts all around the rim. No one ever used it, as far as she can remember.  
  
Meanwhile, Claude's leaning against the wall, holding his ribs and doubled over. The sight sets Byleth spiraling back into her own giggles, and they have to duck outside the exhibit hall. One of the curators follows them as they struggle to catch their breath, a young fellow with thin spectacles. His uniform is far too broad for him, hanging awkwardly off his shoulders.

"Ahem. Is there some problem?"  
  
Claude tries to take a deep breath, wiping at his streaming eyes. Byleth has a better handle on herself, and gives the curator an apologetic smile. "Sorry. Um...private joke about chamberpots." She can't even look at Claude; if she does, she'll lose it again.  
  
The curator merely sighs and shakes his head. "I see." He gives them the judgmental once-over usually reserved for delinquent teenagers, and starts walking away.  
  
Byleth eases Claude onto one of the wooden benches outside the exhibit hall. "You," she says, shaking her head at him. "I can't take you anywhere nice."  
  
Claude gasps for air, still clutching a stitch in his side. "Was that chamberpot from our wedding?" he asks between his giggles. "There were some really terrible gifts..."  
  
"I don't think so. Your mother would've thrown something that outlandish out the window."  
  
"Maybe Darya's birthday. That sounds right."  
  
"Darya's _birthday? _Who in their right mind would give a chamberpot for a kid's birthday—"  
  
She freezes. The curator from earlier is rooted to the spot, not ten feet from them, intently listening to their conversation. Before she can move or speak, he rushes back up to them, staring shamelessly at Byleth's face. Then he leans down, trying to get a glimpse of Claude under his hat.  
  
"Oh, hell." Claude grabs the curator's arm and stands, steering him toward the nearest doorway, which turns out to be an empty exhibit space. Claude muscles his way past the wooden boards and "TEMPORARILY CLOSED" sign. He doesn't stop walking until the chatter of the museum entrance is nothing but a low murmur.  
  
The poor curator just gapes at him as Claude slowly removes his hat and grins, the same mischievous smile immortalized in so many paintings and sculptures. "Hi."  
  
The curator's mouth forms a perfect O. His head swivels from one of them to the other, and it takes every ounce of Byleth's willpower not to laugh at him. "Claude, stop tormenting the poor fellow."  
  
"I'm not," says Claude. "I wanted to compliment you, actually. I really didn't think anyone would recognize us any more. It's pretty ridiculous, don't you think?"

The curator's mouth moves, but no words come out. Byleth and Claude exchange uncomfortable looks; they don't get recognized often, but each time, it's awkward in new and unique ways. Now brilliant pink, the curator just _stares_ at Claude, who's still holding his arm in a firm but gentle grip.  
  
"All right," says Claude, cutting right to the chase. "What will it take for you to forget you ever saw us?"  
  
Finally, a few words come out in a soft whisper. "I...I'm sorry. I don't think I could ever forget. I always wanted to believe the fairy tales about you, but I knew it couldn't be...couldn't possibly be true..." He looks as frightened as he does awed, staring at two people who, for all he knows, shouldn't even exist.  
  
Claude's eyes soften, and he lets the curator go. The young man takes a few stumbling steps back, but he can't seem to take his eyes off them...as if they'll evaporate the moment he looks away.  
  
"Wait." Byleth slides her latest easel bag off her shoulder, holding it out to the curator. "Take this with you."  
  
Claude's jaw drops. For the first time in centuries, he's utterly speechless. He watches her give the Sword of the Creator to the thoroughly befuddled curator, who nearly drops it as he feels around the edges of the bag. Slow realization dawns over his ashen face.

"I...I don't..."

"Take good care of it," says Byleth.

They leave the curator like that, standing in the darkened exhibit hall, mouth hanging open. Byleth doesn't say anything until they're safely back outside, among the weekend crowd milling about the University of Derdriu.  
  
"You...you just..." Claude splutters.  
  
"Claude, look around us," she says, beaming. A dirigible drifts lazily overhead. Students from Dagda, Brigid, Fódlan, Sreng, Duscur, and Almyra lounge on the wide, grassy lawn outside the University's history museum. "The world doesn't need heroes, Crests, and ancient swords. We helped it get here. I've been meaning to give it up for a while."  
  
"Sure, I understand, but what is that poor curator going to say? He can't just tell people that the legendary Queen of Dawn handed him her sword!" Claude starts laughing again at the very thought.  
  
Byleth shrugs, a mischievous grin spreading across her face to match his. "That's his problem to solve."

* * *

**Unification Year 500**  
  
Byleth wakes up slowly in Claude's arms, then all at once when he rolls on top of her, trapping her body under the sheets. Sunlight dances off his eyes as he kisses her temple. "Happy birthday, my love."  
  
"It's probably not my birthday," she mumbles back, blinking sleep from her eyes. "Or yours."  
  
"No, but we haven't celebrated one in a while. And we have guests coming, so today seemed as good of a day as any to celebrate." He yelps when she jolts upright, knocking her forehead against his. "Ouch! What was that for?"  
  
Byleth tries to squirm out from under him, a rush of panic suddenly flooding through her. "Did you move all of your things out of the guest room? Is the market open today? We should try to—"  
  
Claude stops her with a firm but gentle kiss; he smiles against her mouth, bunching the sheets up even tighter to hold her still. "Relax, my love. We can be a little lazy this morning." He punctuates each word with a kiss to her cheeks, her neck, slowly working his way to her chest. She trembles a little, all thoughts of housework draining out of her head.  
  
"Claude?"  
  
"Hmm?" He's thoroughly distracted now, teeth gently nipping her skin through the thin layer of fabric.  
  
"If it's my birthday, what's my present?"  
  
She's heard it more times than she can count, but his delighted, rumbling laughter still sets her skin aflame. Claude yanks the blankets aside and kneels between her legs, pretending to think. His fingers inch up her thigh, breath warm and teasing.  
  
"I don't know," he says slowly. "What do you want?"  
  
In a flash, Byleth props herself up on one elbow and seizes the front of his shirt, pulling him up. Claude beams in the morning sunshine when her eyes meet his, his lips parted, flushed, and oh-so-eager.  
  
"First," she whispers. "I want you to finish what you started. Then, I want a nice, long bath. And finally..." She smiles serenely at him. "I want you to clean the guest room, because I _know _you didn't do it earlier."  
  
Claude tilts his head, offering her his best impression of an angelic smile even though his cheeks flush brilliant red. "Sure thing." He dips his head to kiss her wrist. "I'll get to that...in a bit."  
  
In the end, they don't make it out of bed until the sun is high in the sky, and she winds up helping Claude move all his clutter out of the guest room anyway. Books, maps, and scraps of paper litter the bed. Her foot hits something hard, and she ducks under the bed just in time to see a sealed and labelled vial of something purple. She snatches it up, squinting to read Claude's cramped scribbles.  
  
"For special occasions?" She raises her eyebrows at him, blushes when he laughs at her. "Oh. _Oh_."  
  
"Don't try that yet. I haven't tested it." He plucks the vial from her hands, pocketing it with a wink. "I'll let you know once I do."  
  
By the time they've put their house in order, the sun's starting to dip over the rooftops of Derdriu. That bath will have to wait; they have an appointment to keep. They walk out the front gate and down to their little pier, where Claude's latest pride and joy awaits them. The lightning schooner's thin, gauzy sails glitter as they catch sunlight rippling off the water. Silver letters on the side spell out _Fell Star_.  
  
Claude unmoors the boat and settles himself at the front, resting his hands on the wheel. A brief jolt of static charge spreads up his arms, raising the hairs on his skin. "I'm never gonna get used to that," he grumbles.  
  
"Then let me sail," says Byleth.  
  
"Not a chance, my love." She only has a second's warning before the schooner's sails snap into position, and the boat flies toward open water with a hiss of lightning and ozone. Claude laughs and throws his head back, hair blowing wild in the wind. "Ah ha ha! That never gets old!"  
  
The _Fell Star_ dances over the water, expertly weaving through slower boats on their leisurely evening cruises. One of their neighbors shakes a wrinkled fist at Claude as they race by. Claude blows a mocking kiss over his shoulder at the old woman, still laughing into the wind.  
  
An hour later, they're well away from the bustle of the ocean near Derdriu. Claude lowers the sails, and the _Fell Star_ drifts up to the remains of a fishing village. Most of the buildings are little more than hollowed-out ruins, crumbling under the weight of the elements and years. But the stone pier still stands proud, and two people wait for them at the end.  
  
Byleth catches a bit of their conversation as the schooner drifts closer. "...think it would be all right to call you Father?" says Flayn.  
  
Seteth doesn't answer right away. He gazes out toward Derdriu's distant harbor, his old cape fluttering in the sea breeze. He looks...lost, a traveler completely out of sync with the world. Byleth jumps the last few feet from the boat to the pier. "It's been a while," she says with a smile.  
  
"Indeed it has." Seteth lets her hug him, though he nervously eyes the sparks in _Fell Star_'s sails. "You look well. Both of you do."  
  
"And you look...pretty outlandish," calls Claude from the boat. "We'll get you a change of clothes at our place. You can't go wandering around Derdriu like that."  
  
Flayn eyes Byleth's short hair, bare arms, and flowing beach dress. A web of faint battle scars gleams bright on her skin. "Clothes like...yours?"  
  
Byleth laughs, ruffling Flayn's curls. "Not quite like mine. Come on, Flayn. Have you ever been in a lightning schooner before?"  
  
Flayn and Seteth look at each other blankly. Byleth turns to Claude, shaking her head at the grin already spreading across his face. "Go easy on them, all right?"  
  
"No, I don't think so. If you want to go easy on them, that's your problem." Claude hands the _Fell Star_ over to her, busying himself with helping Seteth and Flayn into the boat.  
  
Seteth grips the railing when the sails hum back to life, his knuckles white and face rigid. "Where did you...procure this craft?"  
  
"Claude built it," says Byleth, beaming with pride at her husband. "It took him a few decades to get it right." She carefully slides her hands over the steering wheel; the _Fell Star_ hums all around her in response. Claude's right; the feeling of the schooner waking at her mere thought and touch never gets old.  
  
She sets an easy pace back toward Derdriu, as sunset paints the waves red and gold. Flayn and Seteth turn their heads this way and that, gaping at the dirigibles floating overhead, and the other lightning ships that lazily cruise the water. Claude comes up behind Byleth, winding his arms around her waist. He buries his nose in her hair, breathing in the scent of mint and ocean breeze.  
  
"Let's celebrate my birthday tomorrow," he whispers.  
  
"Oh?" She turns just enough to nuzzle his cheek. "You haven't had enough?"  
  
He chuckles, his lips warm on her skin, his eyes alight with the glow of sunset over the sea. "No, my love...never."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! That was a fun journey into the speculative future, and I hope you enjoyed taking it with me, Byleth, and Claude :) Thank you all for the comments and kudos; I really appreciate every piece of feedback I've gotten.
> 
> The magic-based technology of the future is heavily based on D&D's Eberron setting. If you liked that stuff in this fic, I suggest playing a game in Eberron.


End file.
